Tales
by FanficwriterGHC
Summary: He certainly never expected to see her wearing THAT.


**Title: Tales**

**Disclaimer: I'm not evil.**

**Summary: He certainly never expected to see her wearing THAT. **

**A little M-rated pick-me-up after The Limey. A hopeful Season Five snippet.**

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><p>"Kate?" he calls into the darkened office.<p>

She said she'd meet him at the loft, told him not to rush through dinner with Alexis. She said she'd spend the time finishing paperwork, backlogged from her heavy week. He reluctantly agreed. She wouldn't come with him to see his daughter, but he knew it had nothing to do with Alexis. Kate was adamant that she not come between them, and made an effort to give them alone time, even if both Castle and Alexis would gladly have her join.

Alexis thought it was sweet.

Castle normally did too, but this week, he's barely seen her. Between conferences for _Frozen Heat_ and sending Alexis to school, all he's managed are a few nights, pulling her close when she climbs into bed after working herself too hard without him. So he listens for her voice, hoping, stupidly, selfishly, that she's still awake.

Nothing. His shoulders slump and he wanders through his office, dropping his phone on the corner of the desk as he loosens the knot of his tie. Alexis had wanted to go to The Four Seasons, so he'd stayed dressed up. But now, all he wants is a shower, maybe a bath, with his woman, if she's around.

He realizes, suddenly, that she could actually have gone back to her place. He sighs quietly. She doesn't spend much time at her home, and he likes it that way—loves it that way. But she does have her own apartment, and it makes sense that she might spend the night there, especially when he can barely call it night now, as the clock strikes midnight in the kitchen. Alexis is in her new apartment with Paige. His loft is quiet, his mother—somewhere.

"Looking for someone, Sir?"

He turns around and squints toward the window, where soft street light filters through to light the black couch. His eyes nearly fall out of his head.

"Kate?" he manages, his voice suddenly rough.

For there, sprawled out on his couch, is Kate Beckett, in a pink corset and the smallest scrap of fabric ever to pass for a skirt known to man. Her long hair is in two braids beneath a small pink bonnet, and clutched in her right hand is a—is that a staff?

Holy shit. She's Little Bo Peep.

"Thought you might have lost your tail. Came here to give it to you," she says, standing slowly, all legs in thigh-high stockings and lace-covered breasts.

He feels his mouth opening, but he doesn't have words. Kate Beckett dressed up for him. Dressed up like a character out of a fairytale. Remembered all the way from—his extraordinary girlfriend dressed up for him based on something he mentioned seventh months ago, long before they ripped each other to pieces and spent months putting themselves back together. Dressed up even though he's fairly sure she was repulsed at the time.

She sidles up to him, tossing the cane to the floor as she reaches up to remove his tie. She leaves it looped around his neck and yanks on both ends, bringing him down to a breath's distance from her ruby red lips.

"Seems you found it all on your own."

She pulls him in, her lips hot and wet on his as he slides his palms over her ridiculously tiny waist, the lace delicately rough beneath his fingers. She drops the tie and arches up to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He smoothes a hand down to cup her thigh, dragging her hips into his with a groan against her mouth.

"Want me to help you find your sheep?" he mumbles as he breaks away to trail kisses down her neck, surprised at his own coherense as he knocks the bonnet from her head, gently guiding her to the side. The woman is hot.

"We'll count sheep after you help me find the bed," she gasps as he laves at that spot right below her ear.

Her fingers work at his buttons, arms sandwiched between them because he can't quite seem to give her up even for the space to undress. She dressed up for him. She sinfully dressed up for him. Her hips rock into his and he loses control of his lips, groaning as his teeth sink gently into her shoulder, bare above the thin lace ruffles that outline her breasts.

He pulls away to stare at her, commit the costume to memory, because as lovely, as hot, as mind numbingly sexy and naughty as she is, that costume has to go. She lets him reach around her to undo the laces of her bustier, his mouth busy at her ear as her nimble fingers drop his belt to the floor and pop open his button. She drags down his fly and he momentarily loses control, the laces slipping through his fingers as he growls into her ear.

She laughs, throaty and deep, and shuffles the fabric on his hips, her low command of, "out," ringing around the room.

He steps out of his jeans as he yanks off her bustier and kneels down to remove his socks. She watches him as he trails his hands up her legs to meet the garter belted edges of her stockings. He leans forward to press his lips to her exposed flesh while he dexterously undoes the clasps.

Her hand comes to tangle in his hair as he inches higher even while his hands roll down each stocking, taking his good sweet time.

"How was your meeting?" she mumbles around a sharp inhale when he runs his tongue just beneath the hem of the 'skirt' that falls to just below the crease of her thighs while he unclips the belt and tosses it to the floor with a soft ping.

"No book talk when you look like this," he retorts, using both hands to shimmy the skirt down her legs.

She braces herself on his shoulders and steps out of the scrap of fabric, gasping when he yanks her forward to press his lips to the center of the white lace covering the last of her.

"Bedroom," she says, grasping at the sides of his face to bring him to his feet.

He bends and scoops her into his arms, laughing as she squeaks and then whacks his chest. She hates it when he does this, but he loves it—loves the little frown of aroused consternation that falls over her face, the way she eventually gives in and takes over his mouth, all hot and aggressive.

He drops her lightly on the bed and follows her as she scoots back toward the pillows. They never do manage to stick with role-playing. They don't need it. He put on a fireman's uniform once, and she tore it off so fast they ripped the lining. They don't need the fantasy.

Everything he needs is there, naked on his bed but for a tiny piece of white lace that he bends to drag down with his teeth. She laughs at him and reaches out to pull him to her as he crawls back up her body.

"Boxers," she mumbles as his mouth descends to consume hers.

They get them off, with one grunt and the slap of elastic that's sure to leave a mark, but he doesn't care. He can't care, not when her mouth is at his pulse and her hand between them, driving him mad as he slips his fingers around hers to tease her. She mewls into his neck and he can't help but grin, even as the thrust of her hips tries to make his jaw go slack, the feel of her calling to him to stop teasing and start—start melding them together.

He gently dislodges her hand and settles there in the cradle of her hips, letting his fingers bring her closer, until her mouth opens and she blinks sluggishly at him, whispers of, "Now," escaping her lips.

He threads their hands together, fanning them out and over her head as he slowly sinks into her, their foreheads pressed together. He stills, overcome, every time. It never gets old, never gets stale, never feels like less than the first time.

But Kate recovers faster, always does, and her hips pull away to slam back, telling him that tonight is not the night for slow and tender and solemn. No, she wants fast and fun and furious, and he's all too happy to deliver. He claims her mouth as he lets go to move with her, rocking together as they nip at lips and clavicles and earlobes.

He pulls back just enough to watch her face as he twists his hips, changes the angle. Her eyes pop open and her hands squeeze his, almost painful as she groans.

"Damn, Castle," she breathes, smiling even as her muscles frown and twist and twitch in all the ways he loves to see.

"Gotta teach you for losing those sheep," he mumbles, bending to suck on the spot where her neck curves into shoulder. He's going to give her a hickey, and she's going to slap him for it, but he just doesn't care. It's been a week, and he's missed her.

She bucks up into him, uncontrolled and almost there as she dislodges a hand from his to clutch at the back of his head. He slides his free hand down between them and she cries out, loud and free, tightening around him, inside and out as she clutches at his back and hand.

Stamina he may have had in his youth, in his young adulthood, in the minutes before she stood up in that outfit, flees him and he lets go, lasting a second longer before he collapses down to her, mouth at her collarbone as she breathes into his hair.

Slowly, her fingers work their way up to rub at his scalp, her body warm and pliant beneath his. He raises up to find her lips, drawing out a lazy kiss before he pulls back to meet her hazy eyes.

"Some outfit," he says, watching as she grins, satedly smug.

"Thought you might need it," she offers. "A little fantasy after all of that harsh reality at the publisher this week."

"Are you teasing me?" he asks, putting on airs and pouting, even as she shifts, reminding him that he has nothing to be sad about. He grunts with her movements and she laughs.

"Maybe just a little."

"That's cold, Beckett," he whines even as she laughs and retrieves her hand to cup his cheeks.

"Cold would have been falling asleep in that getup," she tosses back, her hands soft on his cheeks. "Missed you at the precinct."

"Knew it would happen eventually," he says, grinning even as her fingers pinch the top of his ear in reproach. "I missed being there."

"I think even Gates missed you," she adds.

"Hey, no. No talk of that woman when I'm still—when we're here. This is a no Gates zone."

She chuckles, right and velvet and Kate as she shifts to get comfortable. He goes to roll off of her but she holds his face firmly in her hands. "Don't you dare move," she whispers, tense until he nods into her palms. "And no Gates zone? You ranted for an hour last week while I was trying to sleep."

"Fine. Sex is a no Gates zone," he huffs as he readjusts on his arms.

"Duly noted," she says quickly, wrinkling her nose. "Yeah. Yeah, bad idea."

"Oh, no, don't you go picturing things," he groans letting his forehead fall against hers. "Because then I—" Too late, and jeez, no, he doesn't want that woman anywhere near his sexual thoughts.

"Any other fairytales you want to desecrate?" she asks, derailing them.

He considers her, sifting through the bountiful collection of fantasies he's built up about her—some unrealized, others thoroughly and multiply repeated since the middle of the summer. But fairytales?

"You know, there's always been something kind of fascinating about the Little Mermaid," he offers. "I mean, how do they have sex, anyway?"

"Really?" she groans. "She was sixteen!"

"Hate to burst your bubble, but the actual Bo Peep was probably about twelve," he says before he can really think about it.

"Oh, ew, Castle!" she protests, releasing his face to push at him. "That's awful!"

"Hey now," he says quickly, bending down to draw her into a kiss, thoroughly distracting her, an ability he wishes he could use more in public. "You are not twelve," he assures her, wiggling his hips until she laughs out a gasp. "And that outfit was definitely not built for a little girl."

She purses her lips but her eyes sparkle and he grins at her. "Fine."

"You," he continues, leaning to one side so he can skate his fingers up her sensitive skin, dragging along her flank, watching as she shudders. "You are one-hundred percent woman—sexy, sultry, beautiful woman."

She smiles at that, bringing her hands back to his face. "You're not so bad yourself, stud," she murmurs, quirking an eyebrow as his breath quickens. She knows what that word does to him, falling out of her plump lips like that. "But it'll be a long time before you get me in a mermaid suit."

"How 'bout the sea shell bra?" he asks eagerly, thoughts of Christmas and his birthday swimming in his head.

"We'll see."


End file.
